I Never Told You
by Buckle
Summary: She kept him on his toes. But now it's his turn to send her spinning. 'Today, he'd come home with blood on his hands.' [Reffie. Slightly AU. oneshot.]


**I Never Told You**

"…Reno?"

Reno rolled his eyes. It always came down to this, eventually. There would come a day when he didn't feel like stopping at Rude's or Elena's flat to shower down. There would come a day when he decided that he was bored with this once-in-a-while mock of a relationship, and stop trying. There would come a day when he was sick of changing into some business suit and carrying in a briefcase that seemed to be full of papers and boredom but was actually filled with guns and poison. Now, she stood there, beside the breakfast bar and blocking the way into the kitchen. She dropped a glass from shock, and Reno heard it break and saw the shards fly until they rested around her feet.

He always chose the same girls when he felt the occasional need for a relationship. Or rather, the need to be able to fuck the same girl for at least a week. But, nah, it was true that Reno occasionally had these little cravings for a relationship. Not that he ever told Rude or Elena. Rude had guessed, but Elena was the clueless little blonde she was.

But the girl was the same. Pretty, and one of those high-class plate girls. They thought Reno was a businessman, and knew he got a steady paycheck so they didn't mind living away from their upscale life. In fact, they saw it as some proud sort of rebellion against their overbearing fathers. Or mothers. Or aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, grandmas, grandpas, whatever. And then the relationships always went one of two ways. But they both started with him being bored.

One way, he'd get bored with the relationship. They weren't really his style, he just had to get them out of his system. But he'd get bored with them, and start cheating. Going back his one night stands, but taking care to shower and dress and come home and apologetically claim a 'long day at the office' while she kissed him and he grinned, mentally rolling his eyes at her stupidity. Then, it would happen more and she would get worried. They were all the same. They _all_ thought they could 'change' him. They'd start working extra hard for his attention. Lavish dinners, impeccably clean apartment. He'd barely notice it. Then he stopped caring, and didn't shower after his one-night stands. Sometimes he didn't even bother coming home until morning. He'd come home smelling of their soap (when he bothered to shower there) or their perfume. Ralph Lauren, Britney Spears, Victoria's Secret, it all rubbed off on him, and she'd notice. She'd get teary eyed and start shouting at him, and he would tell her coldly and frankly that he really didn't care. She'd leave, no doubt to cry to her understanding daddy or mother or uncle or brother. They'd take her back and say they were glad she learned a lesson about those slum boys.

The second way, he'd be bored. Rather than start cheating, he'd start not caring about hiding what he really did from her. He didn't take care to hide away his weapons. He even watched from a crack in the door as she would lift the gun she found on his dresser, on his nightstand, in the sock drawer, on the table, on the counter, in the fridge, wherever and she would drop it as though it were a red-hot poker. But that was alright; some people had guns and didn't use them. He was ready to protect himself and her in this under-the-plate world. Then, he'd leave around the boxes of bullets, and she would pretend not to notice as they got emptier or even disappeared all at once. Then he'd stop taking so much effort to change. She noticed the first day he came home with his shirt wrinkled and hanging out of his pants, his tie untied, blazer slung over a shoulder. But now was the final blow. Because today he'd come home in his Turk suit.

And today, he'd come home with blood on his hands.

She stared at his hands, stained red with blood and her eyes wandered to the bloodstains on his uniform.

And then she went "Hmph."

Admittedly, this one was different. He'd met her at a fancy Shin-Ra party, admittedly, but he'd met her because he bumped into her. Literally. But they'd walked away, and he hadn't remembered her until he realized his wallet was missing. He'd looked across the floor to see her holding it, her eyes triumphant. So he'd walked across the room, and asked her to dance. He'd taken back his wallet, and pretended not to notice that she'd taken all the money and credit cards.

But he'd canceled all his cards the next day.

So she'd given him back the cards, never the money though, and they went on a date. Then, it escalated – as it usually did – to them living together. And the first time she'd found his gun, she'd been suspicious rather than shocked.

The next day, he came home to find her in the room, blowing holes in the wall as she aimed at a human-shaped target like they had shooting ranges. She'd smiled at him, and he'd wondered what the hell he'd gotten into. Apparently, he knew less about this girl than she knew about him. And she hadn't seemed to care when the bullet boxes became emptier, and when she'd found a bloody washrag soaking in the sink.

He looked at her, eyes daring her to protest, daring her to say something. The truth was that he wasn't bored with this one. She kept him spinning, kept him on his toes. Hell, he'd of mistaken her for slum rat had he'd not seen her in that pretty little dress that first day. He did this because he wanted to send her spinning, because he was keeping her on her toes, and because he wanted to shock her. It was this game they played, Shock. He'd leave guns and bullets and bloody clothes around and he'd find letters in Wutain, hundred dollar bills and throwing knives.

He moved in close, sauntering and – just for the game's sake – she moved back. But unlike the usual girl, there was no spark of fear in her eye, just mischief and humor glinting in her eyes as he backed her up against the wall. He planted both hands on the wall above and on either side of her head. Leaning down, he leered at her and gave her plenty of time to smell the blood on his skin. "I never told you what I do for a living, did I?"

Suddenly, she kicked him in the shin and he danced back. Then something whizzed by his ear. His head whipped around and he saw a fucking _throwing star_ embedded in the wall. He stared at her. Her smile was slow and seductive, mischievous and devilish. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin haughtily, eyes looking him up and down briskly.

"Asshole. Do you know how hard bloodstains are to get out?"

With that, she walked past him with mock-offense and he shook his head and grinned. Whipping around, he grabbed her by the waist and spun her around, pulling her tight to him. Aquamarine eyes stared into grey eyes that were like storm clouds. "Well I'm not the only one with secrets, babe."

Still feigning haughtiness, she turned her head away from him. "Well now, if I told you mine you'd go running away scared."

"Oh really? And you aren't scared of the blood-drenched Turk?"

"I wouldn't really give a damn if you washed your own clothes."

"Hmm." Reno said. "Well I can think of something that doesn't require any clothes at all."

"I'm sorry, _babe_, but my father, the Ruler of Wutai, wouldn't really be too pleased to hear about that."

And so she walked out of his arms, never looking over her shoulders but smirking the whole way as she sauntered out of the apartment. He stared out at the door, and finally shook his head.

Even when Reno tried to leave her shocked, she still could keep him spinning.

--

**A/N:** Yes, inspired by 'I Never Told You What I Do For A Living' by MCR. Guilty as charged.


End file.
